Dancing with Danger
by DayDreamsofLizzieB
Summary: Before the events involving Elizabeth Keen, Raymond "Red" Reddington built a vast criminal empire, dealing in secrets and services. Red dealt in debauchery and danced with danger. He made money, he broke the law, he traveled the world, and he romanced women, trying desperately to fill the void left by the loss of his family.
1. Chapter 1

Andrea Davison had always been a whiz when it came to research. Even when she was a child, she would pour through volumes of books, articles, and encyclopaedias, cross-referencing them for accuracy, in her quest for knowledge on a given subject. One week she would be trying to ascertain how many varieties of apples there were in the world. The next, she would be on a quest to discover the five smallest countries in continental Europe. Her appetite for knowledge was insatiable. Naturally, she toyed with the idea of a career in journalism (the idea of doing in-depth research for BBC-esque articles appealed to her immensely) when she first started at Vassar, but a kind professor persuaded her to try for a masters in Library Studies instead.

So it was that she found herself a coveted job in the Stephen A. Schwartzman Building or Main Branch of the New York Public Library. Every morning, whether she was working or not, she would make it her way to the intersection of 5th Avenue and 42nd Street, mount the majestic stairs, pass under the watchful gaze of the stone lions, and enter the most beautiful research library she had ever seen. She loved everything about her job, from the smell of the books, to sheer amount of information she had access to at one of the premier research libraries in the northeast, to helping the library's customers find the information they were looking for and more.

In fact, she loved helping people on their research projects so much and excelled at the task so greatly that people soon began slipping tips into her hand for the help. At first, it was the odd five or ten dollar bill given by a thankful grad student with a thesis deadline looming, but soon word of her ability to find the most useful information in the dense, vast volumes of collected and written knowledge contained in the library's closed stacks must have spread. Men in ridiculously expensive suits who exuded power in their every mannerism began asking for her help and quietly palming her stacks of fifty and hundred dollar bills with a quiet nod or conspiratorial wink. She never denied their requests knowledge even though she suspected that the information she was directing them towards was being used to assist them in shady business or personal dealings. She suspected one man in particular, who always requested public records, of trying to track down blackmail-worthy material on his competitors. Still, more unnerving – and she suspected more dangerous – were the plainly-dressed, non-descript young men and women who requested large volumes of records, tipped her in the thousands, and didn't return. Andrea was uncertain, but she suspected that in helping those people she had become party to some governmental spying or criminal organization's operations. At least, Andrea thought, if her life had been a novel or a film, that is what would have been going on. However, the rational part of her brain told her the explanation for the tips, as she called them, was likely much more mundane.

In fact, she was more correct in her wilder assumptions that she could have known. Her wealthiest clients were in fact a ring of international spies, convicts, mobsters, and criminal masters of the highest order. Some of those plain-clothes young people worked for individuals who were capable of erasing identities completely, making witnesses disappear, and committing money-laundering and fraud on a mass trans-national scale. Others were criminal masterminds in their own right, from hackers capable of penetrating national defenses to moles embedded in governmental agencies all over the world. Unbeknownst to sweet, brilliant Andrea Davison, these individuals were using her as a courier for their coded messages and communications. In the books she pulled for them, they would leave concealed scraps of paper with cleverly disguised messages and would leave tiny, nearly imperceptible pencil marks on the page, as clues to decoding them. For over a year, Andrea Davison and the Stephen A. Schwarzman Library Building were at the center of the criminal activities which secretly governed national policy and international trade.

But all of that changed on the 3rd of June 2002…

Andrea Davison woke up alone in her apartment at 6:45am as usual. She made her bed and turned on the radio. At 6:50am she showered, shampooed and conditioned her waist-length curly auburn hair, and shaved her legs. Meticulously, she dried her hair and secured it into a bun at the back of her head. Already, the heat was on the rise for the day, bringing with it the humidity and sticky feeling that characterized summer in NYC and caused errant curls to escape the elastic and bobby pins and hang in loose, romantic tendrils around her head. Wrapping the towel around her body, she padded barefoot back into her bedroom and opened the closet. Humming along to a song on the radio, she selected her outfit for the day: an olive-green silk sleeveless top that tied into a big, floppy bow at her throat, a thin oatmeal-coloured cardigan to keep her warm in the air-conditioned stacks, a tea-length black A-line skirt that fastened at the waist and highlighted her slim, Audrey-Hepburn-like figure, and a pair of low, black leather heels. Then, fully dressed, at 7:10am, she made her way back into the bathroom where she dabbed her cheeks with a light ruby-tinged stain and added a thin coat of mascara to her lashes. Perfectly on time, she started towards the miniscule kitchen in her apartment to assemble her usual bowl of bran cereal. She opened the cupboard and got up on her tip-toes to reach for a bowl.

Suddenly and silently, someone grabbed her from behind and clamped a hand over her mouth. Instinctively, she fought back. She couldn't hear anything but the beating of her own heart, loud and frantic, pulsing in her ears. She didn't even realise she'd dropped the bowl that she'd grabbed from the shelf. The bowl shattered, sending shards across the floor. As she thrashed, trying to escape the clutches of her attacker, she stepped on the shards, cutting up her feet without even realising it. She didn't feel the ceramic slicing through her skin or the blood trickling from between her toes. She was too focused on the feeling of the cool metal of the knife being held at her throat. She forced her body to move, trying as hard as she could to break free, but the grip of the attacker was vice-like, closing in on her until she could barely even squirm.

"Stop moving. Do as I say and you won't be hurt," a deep voice with a slight accent whispered into her ear.

Knowing that there was no way she could escape or overpower the man behind her, Andrea had no choice but to obey. She froze like a statue. Slowly, the arm that was across her chest was withdrawn, but the knife at her throat stayed in place. She stared blankly at the dingy cupboards in front of her as the man grabbed wrists and handcuffed them together. Then, he withdrew the knife, grabbed her by the shoulder, spun her around. She noted the man's height and breadth with some fear. He was dressed in non-descript, fitted all-black clothing which blended in with his dark skin. He marched her to the futon in the cramped living room. She sat down, numb with terror.

That was when she noticed the second man, sitting in the chair opposite the futon. He wore a bespoke pinstriped three-piece suit, a dark-coloured fedora, and polished loafers. He was pale and of average height and didn't look particularly muscular, but by the way he flexed his fingers, Andrea could tell that he was a man who was used to feeling and being powerful. His actions were smooth and deliberate and there was something lethal about the slight crooked grin that played on his lips but didn't touch his eyes.

"Hello, Andrea," he said, calmly.

She stared at him, trying to place his face. She wondered if he was one of the suspicious businessmen she had accepted tips from – or were they truly bribes for her complicity in their questionable activities? – at work. She drew a blank. She could not remember having seen this man or his muscular accomplice before in her life.

"Too shaken to speak?" the man in the fedora prompted, cocking his head to one side and looking at her inquisitively.

"Ah… I…" Andrea tried to find the words, but drew a blank. She settled for a nod, instead.

"Hmmm," he said, forming a steeple with his fingers and resting his chin on them.

"I… I don't know you, do I?" Andrea asked, stupidly blurting out the only sentence in her head which made sense at that moment in time.

"No, Andy… may I call you Andy? We've not been acquainted," he replied, removing his fedora to reveal a head of closely cropped hair somewhere between blonde and brown in colour. "I will admit I was expecting more from someone international criminal masterminds speak of in hushed tones after they've been liberally plied with the finest Polish and Russian vodkas in lovely little establishments in Minsk."

"What?" Andrea replied, confused.

"Is she the wrong one?" the strong, dark man interjected in his deep voice.

"No," the man in the suit replied casually. "She is our target. Andrea Davison, librarian at the Main Branch, brilliant talent for research, famed courier of all manner of juicy little criminal communications… You know, darling… Andy… for someone the Serbians call "The Database" and the Russians, Chinese, and others pay in the thousands for services rendered, you really are disappointing me. This injured little girl thing is rather tiresome."

"I… I thought… they were just t…tips… gifts in gratitude for my services in helping them find the books they were looking for…" she replied fearfully.

The man in the suit laughed, but his eyes remained on Andrea, piercing and fierce. "Well, at least you have the decency not to deny they paid you," he said, almost gently.

"I… I never questioned what they were looking for… everyone should… should have free access to information… I… I just brought them books!" she exclaimed, certain that these men had it all wrong. She wasn't a criminal, she was just a librarian.

"Ah… but here is the thing: in those books, those dusty old volumes of shipping records or whatever other nonsense that no one in their right mind would be interested in reading, your "clients" have been hiding a number of very valuable messages which are passed on from spy to criminal franchise and such. When the next operative comes in, asking you for the sort of things that could be found in the same sort of books, you would of course bring it to them - because you are a specialist in finding obscure information in books most people wouldn't think to consult - bringing with it the coded messages pressed between the pages," the man explained.

"I… I never knew… I am… am just a libr… librarian," Andrea stuttered.

"Well I suspected that you might be an unwitting party to these criminal communications, given the fact that you hadn't sold any of the information you could have readily laid your hands on – not even one tiny scrap – despite the fact that you could have made a fortune on it. You were indeed too perfect a courier to be true. Yet, you took their money all the same, so I couldn't be certain. I suppose that could be boiled down to human greed, yes? I mean who turns down a couple thousand dollars a week tax-free for simply going about their business… it's the free market in all its glorious bizarre oddity… still, you will have to come with us," the man concluded.

Andrea felt the blood drain from her face. Where were they going to take her? Was she being arrested? Would she go to jail?

"Quickly now," the suited man urged in clipped tones.

The two men grabbed her purse and led her out of her apartment, quietly and efficiently, to a car waiting in the back alley below. The strong man jumped in the driver's seat, while the man in the fedora shoved her in the back seat and hopped in after her.

"Are you FBI? CIA?" Andrea asked, figuring she was about to be brought up on charges of accessory to treason, or something like it, if such a thing existed. She wondered if cop shows were an entirely accurate source of information on the finer points of criminal law, and decided to research it all at length when these men let her go... if they let her go.

"Not quite," the man replied with a genuine chuckle and smile that almost touched his eyes.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, knowing they probably wouldn't tell her the truth, but figuring that even knowing a lie would be more comfortable that knowing nothing at all.

"To the Library. It _wouldn't_ do for you to be uncharacteristically late for work. And, I happen to need a favour," he began, before outlining the plan to her.

Andrea agreed, knowing that she had no choice really. She was fully embroiled in the criminal underbelly of the world, even though she'd never realised it until today. And if she wanted to live to see tomorrow, she know she would have to do as this man, who at last told her his name was Raymond Reddington, told her.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Hey, everyone. Hope you liked the introduction to this story so far. Thank you for continuing to read on. Warning: This chapter contains foul language and scenes of violence. **

Andrea made her way up the stone steps, wincing slightly, as she felt the cuts on her feet from the broken bowl. She passed the two stone lions, made of marble if she recalled correctly, and felt as though their eyes were staring into her soul and they knew what she was about to do. Quietly, she entered the building and made her way to the staff room, where she signed in, only 2 minutes late. If anyone asked her about it, she would tell them she was late beacause she clumsily dropped a bowl in her kitchen, stepped on the sharp shards and had to clean up the mess; it was close enough to the truth. Then, she clipped on her ID badge and name tag and took a deep breath.

"Hey, Andrea!" her supervisor, an older librarian named Marilyn intoned cheerfully, coming up on her from behind.

Andrea nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Whew! You scared me," she said, turning to face Marilyn and trying to make herself chuckle in a convincing, relaxed way and failing.

"A little jumpy are we?" Marilyn asked, smiling sweetly with her lips covered in ice-pink lipstick which matched her cardigan.

"I'm not having the best morning," Andrea confided before launching into the story she's rehearsed in her head. "I was reaching for my cereal bowl in the cupboard when I heard a loud bang outside – probably a car backfiring or heck, this is New York, so maybe it was a gunshot – and it made me jump. Well, I dropped the bowl and that made me jump again… and I landed on the broken pieces of bowl, cutting my foot…"

"Ouch…" Marilyn said, staring at Andrea's feet. "Oh! Those are such cute shoes! Are they Jimmy Choos? I don't know how you afford such nice clothes on our salary."

Andrea shuffled around uncomfortably. "Clearance sales are a girl's best friend… anyway, I'm not used to so much excitement in my life…" she said with a nervous chuckle.

"You should get a cat or something," Marilyn replied, as they made their way to the librarian's desk.

"That's hardly a solution," Andrea replied, feeling more slightly herself inside the comforting confines of the library in spite of the fact that she was there on a mission for this man, Reddington. "Toxoplasmosis Gondii might, theoretically, make life more exciting, but not in the way I'm looking for."

"You read too many of the books in this building," Marilyn said in response to Andrea's allusion to her vast memory of random facts on subjects from science and medicine to the arts. "You need a man in your life."

Andrea though back to her last serious boyfriend, Juan, for a moment before replying: "Single by choice."

"Sure. Sure. You just haven't met that perfect hunky librarian man yet," Marilyn replied, fluttering her mascara-caked lashes at Andrea in a pantomime of flirtation. "What about that hunky, Swedish banker-looking guy… the one with the platinum blonde hair, oh-so-square-jaw, and those bright blue eyes who keeps coming back and asking for your help specifically?"

The mention of the customer Andrea had previously suspected of searching for blackmail and the knowledge that that or something worse was likely true made her feel queasy. Her heart started to race again and she struggled to keep a calm look on her face.

"Him? Ha!" Andrea said, trying again to chuckle. "He comes here for the books, not me."

Marilyn looked at her skeptically. Andrea bet Marilyn was interpreting her nervousness as a sign of her interest in the blonde-haired, blue-eyed banker. She knew no one, not one person in a million, could have guessed the real reason for her nerves. Luckily, Andrea was spared having to continue the ridiculous conversation any further when a grad student came up to the desk looking for assistance finding a few resources.

All day, Andrea tended to the library's customers as usual, slowly falling into her normal rhythm. She was by no means as relaxed or happy as she would normally be, but the routine of her day helped blunt the edge of tension and fear that was building in the pit of her stomach. Slowly, the hours on the clock ticked past, bringing her closer to the thing she was supposed to do.

Towards the end of her shift, at the appointed time (4pm on the dot) the muscular man, Dembe, entered the library and caught Andrea's eye. Slowly, in a deliberate way that made his actions look meandering and happenchance, he made his way towards the desk she stood behind.

"Hello, sir. Can I help you find anything?" She asked him, trying her best not to betray that she knew him.

"I am looking for some books for my research on shipping port volumes in historic New York," he replied, using the code phrase Raymond Reddington told her he would.

"I see. Well… have you been to our library branch before?" Andrea asked, remembering to treat Dembe like she would any unfamiliar client.

"Once. I have a card," he replied.

As he spoke, Andrea saw Reddington enter the room out the corner of her eye. She tried to keep her cool even as her pulse quickened.

"Well, then. You… You know that our stacks are restricted access and that it will take me a few minutes to retrieve the records you are looking for…"

"Of course. Here is a list of the books I will be wanting," he replied, handing her a fold sheet of paper.

Andrea unfolded the paper. Inside it read: _Proceed to the stacks entrance with your key card and wait there._

"Alright, I will be right back with your books, sir," Andrea replied, motioning to one of the other librarians, Asad, to take over the desk for her while she went into the back.

At her normal even pace, Andrea made her way around the corner through an unlocked door that opened onto a hall with a dozen locked doors on either side which housed the books. Reddington was waiting for her in the hallway, fedora pulled low over his eyes and concealing part of his face from the cameras above. Andrea worried about the cameras. Even if they couldn't make out his identity from them, she would be in deep trouble for letting someone into the stacks. Then, again after today, she would probably have to quit her job anyway.

He must have read her mind. "The cameras are patched into a loop from 10 minutes ago. The door please."

"Which one?" she asked, her palms beginning to sweat.

"Whichever one most of the paying clients books come from," he replied, coolly, raising one eyebrow.

Andrea nodded, swallowed hard, and made her way to the second last door on the right. Hands shaking, she pressed her key card against the sensor and heard the click of the door unlocking. She turned the handle and opened it a crack. Then, Reddington pulled some sort of remote device from the pocket of his suit, pressed a series of buttons, and the world went black.

"The power is out on this block now. Let's get into this room. We have about an hour," he instructed, pressing gently on the small of Andrea's back and urging her into the room.

The door closed behind them with a quiet but ominous click. Inside, the stacks were lit with dim lights which ran on the emergency generator. Reddington grabbed a book cart near the entrance and wheeled it behind Andrea as she led him through the stacks to the sections she remembered bringing books to the "tippers" from. Reddington loaded the books onto the cart. She worked in near silence, while he made quips about this book or that, alluding to the content and showing himself to be rather well-read in his own right. Andrea couldn't believe he could be so glib in what was, for her at least, such a tense situation. At last, they'd gathered up every book she could remember bringing out for the criminals who matched Reddington's descriptions. Andrea was uncertain how he planned to sneak so many books out of the library, but that was his part of the plan, and his problem, ultimately, not hers.

They were making their way back towards the door, Andrea heard a strange click noise behind her, and in her heightened nervous state jumped and turned around to see what it was. Reddington was slower by a half second, but he turned too. Andrea gasped in shock at the sight of the gun that was cocked and pointed at her head. Holding the gun was Marilyn, her supervisor… bubblegum pink, cat-loving, sweet, middle-aged Marilyn. On Marilyn's normally smiling face was a scowl. There was a vicious look in her eyes.

"Stop right the fuck there, you little bitch," Marilyn snarled. "You too, Mr. Concierge of Crime."

"And who the hell are you?" Raymond Reddington asked keeping his perpetual grin in place even with a gun trained on him.

"I am the one your precious enemies have nicknamed the Database," she snapped with pride, despite the fact that she made herself sound like a cartoon villain in saying it.

"That's rather funny, since my evaluation of your little scheme seems to indicate little Andy is the brains around here. You business model depends on hiding information in obscure books and which only one-in-a-million people would find, let alone even think to look in. Andy, here is the "one" factor, but you... well, you're just one of us mere mortals," Reddington replied, egging her on.

"Who do you think hired her? Who fueled her deluded sense of self-importance so that she wouldn't question people handing her money in thanks for her assistance? Who the fuck do you think set up this whole operation AND took the time to find an innocent little thing to take the blame when the FBI and CIA eventually rain down on us? And she will be busted for it because she took their money… and idiot that she is, she went and bought pricey things no librarian could possibly afford with it. The proof is all there. Sorry, Andrea, darling, you may be book-smart but when it comes to life you are a gullible mouth-breather. You couldn't even convincingly act like you weren't up to something this morning. I knew you were up to something from the moment you walked in," Marilyn ranted, her voice dripping with disdain.

Andrea couldn't believe it. She'd never though it possible to be so betrayed. Anger washed over her.

"I presume you intend to prevent me from taking these books?" Reddington said, oh-so-casually.

"My clients would kill me for losing their secrets to you," Marilyn replied.

"So, it's your death or mine then?" Reddington asked, raising an eyebrow and evaluating Marilyn.

She gave a curt nod and tightened her grip on the gun.

All of a sudden the anger and the fear boiled over inside of Andrea. She couldn't believe she'd been so gullible, so stupid. Still, she wasn't about to let herself be killed for her mistakes. She was determined to live through today... if she didn't, what was the point in learning all of this new information about her life? No, she would live and educate herself on the criminal underworld Marilyn had thrown her into and Raymond Reddington had revealed to her. She would live... even if that meant Marilyn, a woman she had once felt close to, didn't.

Andrea leapt forward, using all the might to try to knock Marilyn off of her feet. Although Andrea was not strong, she did have the advantage when it came to the element of surprise. She managed to knock Marilyn to the ground. As she fell, Marilyn pulled the trigger. Bang! The bullet raced through the air and burrowed itself in Andrea's leg. A hot, burning pain that would not be ignore, shot through Andrea as she struggled to stay on her feet. Through gritted teeth, she screamed. Marilyn quickly, fired off another round, but this one failed to find a target. In the chaos, Red made his moved, coming around from behind and stomping on Marilyn's wrist. There was a snap and she released the gun.

Andrea began to feel nauseas and her vision grew blurry from the pain. Pain was searing up her leg. Her bones felt like they were on fire. Beads of sweat collected on her palms and temples. She looked down and saw the blood oozing out of the large hole in the calf. She had a half a second to look back at Reddington, holding the loaded weapon to Marilyn's head, before she fainted.


	3. Chapter 3

Dembe moved swiftly, coming and going through the back door whose alarm they'd disabled. He loaded the books, hidden in tool bags on a non-descript wire cart, into the back of the electrician's van they had parked out back. Aside from the incident in the stacks, everything had gone to plan. But now Red was changing the plan and there was nothing Dembe could do but shrug his shoulders; being flexible to Reddington's changing whims was practically part of the job description. So, with a mere five minutes left on their engineered power outage, Dembe waited for his boss, keys in the ignition, ready to make their escape. Granted, it wasn't going to be the cleanest escape… they would be leaving traces of blood and Marilyn's body at the scene; potential evidence which could be used against them someday.

On cue, Red kicked open the door with Andrea slung over his shoulder. Swiftly, he made his way to the van, opened the back door, and lay Andrea gently in the vehicle next to the bags of stolen books. She appeared to be unconscious but breathing, Dembe thought. Then, Red hopped into the back of the vehicle himself and closed the doors from the inside.

"To the airport?" Dembe asked, trying confirm whether or not their scheduled flight was still part of the plan.

"Yes," Red replied, distractedly while rifling around in one of the non-book bags. "And could you have Doctor Zoren join us on the flight?"

"Certainly,"Dembe replied, pulling out his cell phone to make the call as he turned the corner and drove away from the library.

After a few more moments of searching, Reddington found what he was looking for. With trained precision, he wrapped Andrea's wound in gauze and applied pressure to slow the bleeding. Once he had that under control, he briefly checked her vitals. She seemed to be alright. By Red's estimation, she'd likely fainted due to the shocking nature of being shot for the first time. One never forgets their first gunshot wound, he always thought; the pain wasn't really what you would expect from the way it is depicted in Hollywood films and television shows. He remembered feeling so shocked that he had actually been shot – up until the point when the bullet pierced his skin he'd never really conceived of it as possible – that the pain didn't kick in until later, but when it did…

"Ow," Andrea moaned.

Red chuckled, relieved that she was doing well enough to feel pain. He had to give her credit, for such a delicate little waif of a librarian, she had some definite guts. He watched her ease her eyes open and wince noticeably.

"She shot me," Andrea croaked, her voice breaking midway through the sentence, but still conveying her sense of disbelief.

"That she did," Reddington replied.

She made an effort to sit up, but Red pushed her back down, gently.

"Did you shoot her?" Andrea asked, afraid of the answer. She got the sense that Reddington and Dembe were dangerous men, very dangerous men, but she could still hold out hope that they weren't murderers.

"I did," he said so matter-of-factly, as if it wasn't a big deal at all.

Andrea felt a whirlwind of emotions. Guilt at playing a role in a person's end. Fear of Reddington. Fear of Dembe. Apprehension at what a mess her life had suddenly become. Terror at the prospect of going to jail. Sadness. Yet, as she looked into Reddington's unsmiling eyes, a different feeling took over: relief. It had been them or Marilyn. And hadn't she felt that determination to live in the moment? Hadn't she thought that it was better her than me? She couldn't blame Reddington for arguably saving her life. And he didn't look as if he'd taken joy in the act. No, he looked resigned, she thought, and grim.

She nodded weakly at him. He tipped his hat in response.

Feeling a bit stronger, she began to look around. Her leg throbbed with white-hot pain whenever she moved, but as long as she stayed still the pain was confined to a continuous burning ache that she could handle. She noticed the bags and the tools and the doors and realized that she was in a moving vehicle. A jolt of panic shot through her system. Suddenly, she was suspicious and afraid of these men again. The brief moment of almost trust had passed.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded, wondering if there was any way she could possibly escape.

"The airport,"Reddington said with a casual smile.

"Why? You told me… This wasn't the plan I agreed to – at _knifepoint_, by the way," she said, her voice growing stronger and more defiant. Yes, she was trapped in the vehicle with a gunshot wound to her leg, and utterly powerless to overcome either of these men, but she damn well wasn't going to show them that she felt helpless. She was going to fake power until she made it a reality. She was going to survive.

"Plans change," he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. "It's not like you could go back to your apartment after this anyway, which is why I promised to relocate you in our deal. However, with what just transpired," he said, pointing to her leg, "…well, that relocation had to be scaled up."

Andrea glared at him, trying desperately to make him feel one iota of the fear he'd made her feel that day.

"I am helping you, Andy. I am graciously, and free of charge, going to get you out of the country. You will be safe and sound," he assured her, patronizingly.

"Nothing is ever free," she retorted, wanting to believe him, but unable to trust that he was telling the truth. For all she knew, the authorities would find her the next day, floating face-down in the Hudson.

"True," he chuckled. "Consider these books and their contents payment in full." He laid a hand on one of the bags that filled the back of the van.

While Andy was struggling to come up with a retort, her brain fuzzy with the feeling of continuous pain, the van came to a stop. Her heartbeat increased.

"We're here,"Dembe stated, before getting out of the vehicle.

Andrea counted the seconds, waiting for Reddington to pull a weapon on her. He didn't move. She remained tense, trying to anticipate his next move. After what felt like an eternity, the back doors swung open. Dembe was standing there, hand resting on a gurney. Red moved towards her, wedging one arm under her thighs and the other around the small of her back before she was able to protest too much.

"_You_ are going to lift me onto that gurney?" Andrea asked, doubt in her voice. Her doubt was mainly that Reddington and Dembe were going to deliver her safely, but it expressed itself as doubt in Red's physical strength.

"How do you think you got _into_ the van?" Red retorted, lifting her up, and carrying her over.

Gently, he lowered her down onto the gurney. Then, he went back to the van, where he and Dembe began grabbing the bags of books.

This is my chance to escape, Andrea thought. They had their backs turned. As quickly and quietly as she could, she swung her feet out over the edge of the gurney. She bit her lip to keep from crying out from the pain as she put a fraction of her weight on her legs. She tested her strength and decided she could do it. Yes, it was extremely painful, but she thought the adrenalin should be able to carry her through until she was safe. With both hands still on the gurney, she planted her full weight on her legs and prepared to run. She took one step, then another. And then, her injured calf gave out and she crumpled to the ground.

"Oh, for fuck sakes," Andrea cursed through gritted teeth.

Her outburst caused Reddington and Dembe to look over. Red chuckled and looked at Dembe. Dembe came over and lifted her off the ground as if she weighed no more than a feather and deposited her back on the gurney less gently than Red had. Then, he proceeded to strap her to the gurney, lashing her ankles and wrists together. He tested the restraints with a tug, and satisfied, went back to helping Red load the books into a large metal bin next to the van. She was safely secured, so they paid her no mind. Finally, they finished loading the metal bin.

Dembe, with all his strength, took the bin and began to roll it towards a small private jet, about 500 meters from the van. Andrea watched him move, noting again the immense power in his every step. Even if she didn't trust him or his boss, she had to trust that she wasn't going to be outrunning such a fit, muscular man anytime soon.

"In the interest of keeping you out of pain, I am going to wheel you over to the plane now," Reddington said, approaching her with a mischievous grin on his face. "Would you mind not trying to make a run for it? If you break a leg you are going to make Doctor Zoren's job much more difficult than it needs to be."

"Promise not to get me shot again and I will try not to do the _sane_ thing and run away from the men who broke in to my apartment, threatened me, coerced me into criminal actions, killed my supervisor, and well, effectively kidnapped me," Andrea replied, still trying to remain defiant in her state of powerlessness.

"You're part of the world of international crime now, whether you quite realized it or not… No one can promise you your safety, I am afraid. From the day you first took your job, I imagine there have been bullets manufactured with your name on them," he replied, sadly. "You can't help what you've been embroiled in, Andy, but you can choose how you deal with it."

Andrea had nothing to counter his statements with. She remained silent; trying to think of some way to be defiant, to take back her agency and recover her life from the deep pit it was teetering on the edge of. Should she embrace it, and jump in with both feet? Should she become the criminal Meredith had made her to be? Or was there some way that she could salvage it all? Should she spend the rest of her days in a foreign country, under an assumed identity, running a bookshop or something? Or could she, should she, go back to New York and face the law, receive punishment for her crimes and be content knowing she might have managed to do the right thing in the end?

Reddington wheeled her up to the base of the staircase leading up into the jet. Andrea wondered if he was going to try to carry her up there, when Dembe emerged from the plane and made his way down the steps. Red undid her restraints, wordlessly, and Dembe scooped her up in his arms. She did not protest this time. She was too lost in thought to fight back. She had to figure out a plan for her life before she could act on it, and in the meantime she would have to trust – no matter how difficult it was – that these men would not hurt her.

Dembe carried her into the luxurious private jet and deposited her in a plush, beige leather seat, before disappearing into another section of the plane. Andrea felt her leg throbbing, and reached down to touch the blood-soaked gauze which was wrapped tightly around the wound.

"How is the pain?" Reddington asked, walking past her.

He removed his suit jacket and hung it on a peg on the wall of the plane. Andrea noted the red stains on his shirt sleeves, trousers, and vest; her blood. It made her feel queasy. She felt as though she might faint again. Andrea tried to focus on her breathing: in and out, pause, in and out, pause, in (one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand) and out (one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand)…

Reddington warned her that they would be taking off in a few short moments and she nodded. When the time came, the pilot executed the manoeuvre so smoothly that Andrea barely felt it. She wouldn't have known they were in the air if it was not for the tell-tale popping in her ears.

Dembe returned from the other part of the plane with a small, middle-eastern woman in crisp green scrubs. Without an introduction, she immediately laid her hands on Andreas leg and began deftly unwrapping the long strands of gauze and bandage.

"Andy Davison, Doctor Zoren. Doctor Zoren, Andy Davison," Red said, introducing them lazily while unfastening his vest.

When the air hit her wound, Andrea felt as if she'd been shot again. She winced and hissed loudly through gritted teeth. Small tears welled up in her eyes. Doctor Zoren paid her pain no mind and began to prod at the gruesome hole with a gloved finger. It took nearly all of Andrea's concentration not to cry out or beg her to stop. She bit her lip to keep her silence. She bit her lip so hard that it bled.

"She will need anesthetic. The bullet is lodged between her tibia and fibula," Zoren announced, moving from Andy's leg to look for supplies in the large chest of medical supplies at her side.

"I… _I_ will need anesthetic. _Me_. Tell _me_, not him, not them. _I'm_ the one you are operating on here," Andrea snapped, allowing her ire at being spoken about like she wasn't there to trump her physical pain for a moment. She didn't like the idea of being under the influence of medication in the presence of dangerous criminals, but the pain was so great that she was willing to forget that for the time being.

"Yes," Zoren said, not looking up from her bag.

Somewhere just outside her field of vision, Andrea heard Reddington laugh and mutter something that sounded like "feisty".

"Red, if you would talk to her… Andy… while I administer to the anesthetic and help me monitor her responses…?" Zoren asked, pulling a syringe and vial out of her bag. "It is essential that she… that Andy… is calm. I don't want to fully sedate her for a number of reasons…"

"Of course, doctor," Reddington replied, strolling back into Andrea's field of vision and rolling up his shirt cuffs.

Andrea felt a prick in her arm, and a sharp sensation moving its way up the veins in her arm. Her head felt light, lighter than air, and fuzzy. Then everything went dark and she tumbled into a sleep-like state.

Red squeezed Andrea's hand to see if the drug had taken hold. She didn't recoil or squeeze back. Her hand didn't move at all, but her eyelashes fluttered.

"Still with us, Andy?" he asked.

"Nnn… no one c-calls muh-me Annndy ah-nymore," she replied, eyes closed, slurring her words.

Red turned towards Zoren. "Sodium thiopental?" he asked.

Doctor Zoren nodded.

A small grin graced Raymond Reddington's lips. This could be fun, he thought. Sodium thiopental was an effective anesthetic, yes, but it also had a reputation as a sort of truth serum. Reddington knew many of the claims about the barbiturate were exaggerated from having experimented with it himself. Still, patients under thiopental's influence did demonstrate an inability to perform higher cognitive functions such as lying, and would tend to answer questions truthfully when asked.

"And why is it that no one calls you Andy _anymore_?" he asked.

"Www… Juan… Juaaannn DeSssoto wasss the only perssson who caaalled me thaaat. Huh-he-uh waaasss my b-boyfriend, buh-but he had a wife," Andy disclosed, her voice slow and sad.

Red knew all about Juan DeSoto from the file Luli Zeng's people had compiled on Andrea. Reddington had done his research; he would never have entered Andrea's apartment and used her to gain access to the library unless he's been confident he knew everything there was to know about her.

"He wasss nice. Huh-he wasss oh-older and ssssooo sssophisticated and sssmooooth. Suh-seductive… like you," Andrea admitted, the thiopental making her chatty.

Red chuckled quietly to himself. He considered her face for a moment. She had unblemished ivory skin with the exception of a small patch of freckles across her nose, a small well-shaped nose, and full rose-coloured lips. And with all that long-curly hair, tumbling around her shoulders, she looked like a pre Raphaelite painting. She could have been Waterhouse's Ophelia or Millais', or Collier's Lady Godiva. He could see how she could have charmed a married man into straying. Yes, he would have to watch himself around her, he knew.

He asked her no more questions about her personal life for the rest of the operation. Instead, he asked her about books, her favourite ones, her least favourite ones, the ones she wanted, the ones she had no interest in and more, while Doctor Zoren worked quietly and methodically on her leg. At last, hours after they'd began, Zoren stitched up the hole in Andrea's leg and applied a bandage. She told Red to let her rest.

Reddington made his way into the other part of the plane, behind the partition then, and began to discuss business with Dembe. They had a large volume of messages to de-code and find buyers for.


	4. Chapter 4

"So, you intend to keep her…?"

"I intend to make her an offer…"

"Isn't that…"

"Yes, it is dangerous…"

"…valuable…"

"very valuable… skill set…"

"…but hostile, no? What if she is prone to…"

"Professional detachment…"

"…a test?"

"A mission… I've been mulling it over for a while now…"

As Andrea slept, she drifted in and out of dreams in which two men, neither of whom she could see, whispered to each other in hushed tones. Occasionally, there was a woman's voice as well and the rumble of engines, running water, and birdsong. Most of it was punctuated by birdsong. Her eyelids were heavy, and she struggled to force them open. It took an immense effort for her to blink, but she did it. Once. Twice.

She caught a glimpse of something white and fuzzy and blinked again, trying to bring it into focus. It didn't work, there was too much bright white in the room. She blinked again. Slowly, she was able to open her eyes and the room came into focus. She was lying in a mahogany four-poster bed, under a lightweight white linen cover, surrounded by layers of white mosquito netting draped in such a way as to replace the bed's canopy. The walls of the room were white too, but somehow they managed to look Mediterranean rather than clinical. The room was bright, too bright to be morning still. There were three windows on the long wall to her right, each an assemblage of panes set in dark wood with brass hooks in the centers to fasten them shut. Gossamer white curtains hung in front the windows, doing little to block out the daylight. At the far end of the room to her left were two dark wood doors and a dark wood armoire covered in intricate, delicate carvings.

Andrea did not remember how she got there. She forced herself to think, to collect what data she might have stored away in her foggy memories. The first image that came to her was her Jimmy Choo heels, and her feet… cuts on her feet… she'd broken a bowl… clumsy… no! Attacked! There'd been a man in her apartment… no! Men! Two men… Dembe and Raymond… and the library…oh god!

Instantly, her hands shot down to her leg, groping at the bandages wound around her calf. Her touch hurt, but not nearly as sharply as she remembered. Someone must have given her something for the pain.

Assured that her memories were real, her mind kicked into high gear, trying to process the relative threat level of the situation she found herself in. She appeared to be alone in the room. And she was alive. If they'd wanted to kill her, they'd had ample time to do so. She was alive, so that must've meant she was safe.

Slowly, she slid out of bed. She was about to put weight on her injured leg, the prospect of which frightened her given how badly such an attempt had gone previously, when she noticed a pair of crutches half-tucked under the bed. Leaning over the edge of the mattress, she scooped up the crutches and positioned them under her armpits. Putting her weight on the good leg, she lifted herself from the plush bed, slowly. Determined, she made her way across the room to the doors.

With some difficulty, she opened the first door to discover a gleaming spa-like bathroom. Relieved, she took a few moments to make herself feel more human and presentable. She examined her reflection in the mirror with a critical eye. She thought she looked pale and bit gaunt. She wondered how long she'd been sleeping. A day, or so, she figured; long enough that someone had dressed her in a knee-length cotton nightgown that wasn't hers. Feeling self-conscious and vulnerable, she wrapped herself in a white terrycloth robe that hung from the back of the bathroom door and tried to gather up some courage. Then, she hobbled over to the second door.

Slowly and carefully, she turned the handle, uncertain what she might find on the other side. She opened the door, and peeked through the crack. She took in the gleaming white hallway, devoid of furniture, with tasteful red-clay flooring tiles. There was no one there. It was quiet. Tentatively, she moved past the door and wandered down the hallway. She tried to be as silent as the grave, but that was nearly impossible given the awful sound the clutches made on the tile flooring.

At the end of the hall, there was a sharp left-handed turn which opened out onto a balcony-like platform which looked out onto the main level below. Opposite the balcony, the entire wall of the house was made of glass, looking out onto a lush garden full of exotic flowers and trees and a bright, gleaming swimming pool. Andrea took it all in, realizing that she was most definitely not in America anymore.

"Andrea. Ah, you're awake!" Raymond Reddington's voice called out genially from below.

Andrea peered out over the railing and spotted him, seated in a wicker-like chair with deep red and gold cushions, playing chess by himself. He was dressed casually, in beige linen trousers and a white collared shirt. A beige panama hat was perched on the arm of his chair.

"There's a hidden elevator to your left, it looks like a regular door. Simply press the little white button under the picture frame…genius, really," he called out, subtly inviting her to join him on the main level.

Andrea looked for the button, and hit it with her index finger. Within a half-second, the regular-looking dark wood door sprung open to reveal a dark-wooden paneled elevator interior. She maneuvered herself into the elevator mere seconds before the doors began to close. She looked around for a button to press to bring her downstairs. It took was half-hidden, made of the same wooden material as the paneling. The descent took a minute, and then the door sprung open again. Andrea exited the elevator quickly, not wanting the door to close on her.

"Do you play chess, Andy?" Red asked as she hopped and scraped her way over to where he was seated.

"No," she replied, her voice feeling thick from lack of use. "I prefer reading. Books bring one to the heart of the matter. They reveal the truth…"

"And you'd rather have truth than brilliance and subterfuge and stratagems?" he asked, completing her thought for her, his one eyebrow raised.

Andrea nodded curtly. "Where am I? How long have I been out? Who put these clothes on me? What do you want with me? What am I supposed to do with the rest of my life now?" she said, assaulting him with a barrage of questions in rapid succession.

"Peru. Lovely little estate in the Urubamba Valley. About thirty-one hours. Doctor Zoren," he answered, calmly as though she'd asked him about the weather. "Sit down."

Andrea looked at him skeptically. Those last two words had not been a question; they were an order. She contemplated being defiant, but ultimately decided that honey drew more flies than vinegar, and that she might do better if she played the game by his rules for a little while. She sat in the chair opposite his and deposited the crutches on the floor to her right.

"Brilliance and truth are not mutually exclusive, you know," Reddington stated, moving a bishop across the chess board.

"I never said that they were," Andrea replied, wary of the fact that he was trying to twist her words.

"And _surely_ the truth can be strategically applied," he continued as if he hadn't heard her.

"Withholding the truth is tantamount to lying," she replied, trying to make eye contact with him.

"Is that always the case?" he challenged. "What if one merely intends to withhold the truth for a short time; waiting – perhaps – for a more opportune moment?"

"The present is always the most _opportune_ time to disclose the truth. If you have to hold on to the truth, you _clearly_ intend to use it as maliciously as a lie," she said, bristling at the topic. All of this dredged up unpleasant memories of games with truth and lies she'd had played on her before.

"You would have preferred if Juan DeSoto told you about his wife when you first met? The truth isn't always _good_, Andy, but it _is_ powerful," he said with a cocky little grin as he advanced a rook.

"How the hell do you know about that?" Andrea demanded, furious.

"Oh, you told me all sorts of juicy things while sedated," he replied mischievously, leaving out the fact that he had a file on her. He was more than happy to let her think she'd told him more than she had.

"What?" Andrea blurted out, feeling violated. "You… you have no right…"

Without thinking, she shot up to her feet and went to brusquely exit the room. The muscles, tendons, and stitches in her calf screamed in protest. She inhaled sharply as the pain shot up and down her leg. Every nerve ending in her body screamed for her to sit back down, but there was no way she was going to sit there across from the man who'd betrayed her trust at every turn and uprooted her entire life in only two days. Without the assistance of the crutches, she lifted her injured leg and hopped across the floor on her good leg. She was not going to sit there and let him drag up her most painful memories.

She raced across the room as quickly as she could and passed into a room beyond, looking for a door or something which would lead her to a place farther away from Raymond Reddington. She supported herself with one hand on the wall as she hopped down the hallway, heading – with determination – to whatever was behind the door at end. Even if it was just a bathroom, she'd decided that that was where she was going to go. She grasped the handle and pulled the door open.

Finally, a stroke of luck! Andrea quickly shut the door behind herself, and turned the knob to lock it. Then, she scanned the walls of books upon books with a sense of relief. Holding onto the shelves for support, she made her way around the office/personal library, scanning the titles printed on the spines. At last, she spied the complete 15th edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica, and fell upon it like a parched desert-dweller who fall on an oasis. With care, she selected certain volumes and placed them on the floor where she settled in to scan them for the valuable knowledge she knew they had the potential to offer. Her finger ran across the pages and her eyes soared from word to word, seeking out the ink-and-paper representation of the Urubamba Valley, assessing its location, geography, and population, hoping that it would provide her with a means of escaping Reddington.

Even if he didn't want to kill her, she felt ill-at-ease in his company. There was something about his gaze that suggested he could read her as well as she could read any book or library catalogue and it unsettled her in the extreme. Knowledge, she knew, was power. And if a man like Raymond Reddington had knowledge of her, he had power over her… and deep in her gut she felt that she ought to be wary of what a man like him would be inclined to do with that power. He'd already convinced her to help him rob her workplace and made her an accomplice to his subsequent actions; who knew what he'd want to persuade her to do next?

The Britannica directed her back to the bookshelves, where she sought out atlases, random appendices, survival books and others. She devoured the knowledge voraciously, starved for a feeling of power and agency over her life as it had suddenly become. Not ready to contemplate the fact that she would likely never return to her dingy little apartment in New York, or see any of her friends ever again, she threw herself into the act of researching; seeking solace in her favorite pastime. Slowly, she lost of track of time as she became steadily more absorbed in the task she'd set out for herself. She could tell from the ache that was beginning to build in her calf that it had been a number of hours and that the painkillers were started to wear off.

When the ache grew to be too much for her to handle sitting on the hard wood floor, she dragged herself on her hands and knees to a heavily-cushioned chaise lounge underneath the window on the opposite wall. She heaved herself up onto it and tried to make herself comfortable enough to sleep off the pain. She must have succeeded, because when she next opened her eyes, it was dark outside the window and she was no longer alone in the library. Sat at the desk in the center of the room was Raymond Reddington, face illuminated by the laptop he had open in front of him.

"Godda…" she began.

"Good evening, Andrea," he said smoothly in his perfect deep voice, cutting her off.

She glared at him, wondering if he'd picked the lock or broken down the door to get into the room and remind her of the power he had over her now. As if he could read her mind, he lifted a key from the desk in front of him and showed it to her. She sat up on the chaise, squaring her shoulders to him.

"Fine. I get it, you own me now. If I run, if I hide… you'll find me. If I think about telling anyone… well, you have a boatload of incriminating evidence against me, don't you?" she accused.

"I would prefer it if we thought of this as a sort of mutual arrangement. Ownership is too messy and slavery has never been something I can abide by," he said, his tone calm as ever. She wondered if anything ever unnerved this man.

"And the terms of this… _arrangement_?" she demanded, seeing no other course of action that go at least pretend to go along with his premise.

"I think we are capable of incredible things if we work together. I deal with a number of suppliers and buyers across the globe, and I've found that my business runs most smoothly when I have a complete picture of the transaction, materials, players, and locations. In short, someone who is brilliant and excels at finding crucial information that others might miss – might not even think to look for in the first place – would be a vital addition to my dedicated team of associates," he explained.

"I understand what is in it for you, but why would I go along with it? Blackmail? Well, I am more than willing to face the punishment for what I helped you do. I'll go to jail, happily," she said, bluffing. She was still in the moral grey area on the matter, actually; her survival instincts warring with her sense of justice.

"Ever been to jail, Andy? I don't think you'd like it, sweetheart. It would be downright criminal of me to let you turn yourself in," he said with a smirk, calling her on it. "Besides, you're too much of a survivor for all that. Deep down, you're just interested in saving yourself. That's why you took those bribes, and that's why you agreed to help me with my little plan, and that is why you tackled Marilyn in the stacks."

"Don't presume to tell me who or what I am," she snapped, furious at his implications.

"If you join me, I can promise you a new identity – a multitude of new identities if you like – beautiful homes and hotel stays in locations you've only ever read of, Andy… comfort, luxury, ease, and the ability to do the thing you love all day, every day," he said, pitching her the position like it was a normal job interview. "You can visit the most magnificent, historical, prestigious public and private libraries in the world, and have access to databases you never even dreamed of… ones the general public will forever be in ignorance of."

It was difficult for her to maintain her composure. She knew he was doing his best to seduce her into accepting, for the smooth, suave tone of voice he used to the adjectives he invoked and slow-burning, meandering, suggestive structure of his sentences. He was skilled, she thought to herself. She bet he didn't struggle to get what he wanted from most people. He knew how to create a demand and pitch himself and his services as the best, the only solution to fill the void.

She considered his offer in silence. Minutes passed, punctuated only by the tick-tock of a clock somewhere in the distance and the faint sound of running water.

"I… will think about it," she conceded, letting her shoulders droop in defeat.

A half smile flashed across his face. "Of course," he added, taking a deferential tone. "In the meantime, can I interest you in something to eat? My chef, Gabriela, makes an excellent lomo saltado."

Andrea's stomach grumbled at the mention of food. "Okay," she replied stiffly.

"Very well," he said, rising from the desk and bending down to grab something on the floor.

He walked over to her with the pair of crutches and offered them to her.

"I'd have offered you my shoulder, but I rather think you enjoy your independence," he said with a wicked grin.

Andrea grabbed the crutches and hobbled behind him to the kitchen. As much as she didn't want to admit it, he was right, the lomo saltado was the most delicious thing she'd ever eaten, and she didn't want to go to jail.

**AN: Lomo Saltado is a Peruvian dish comprised of steak, onion, tomato, fries, and vinegar. **

**The Urubamba Valley is also known as the Sacred Valley of the Incas and is located close to the Andes, Cusco, and Machu Picchu. Google it for some truly beautiful photos.**

**The anesthetic mentioned in the last chapter can, according to Wikipedia, induce amnesia, which is why Andrea doesn't remember what she said to Red on the plane.**


	5. Chapter 5

Dawn was cresting over the dense hills of the Urubamba Valley when Raymond Reddington and Dembe loaded up the Jeep and drove away from the estate. Red watched the estate fade into the jungle in the rear-view mirror with a smile. He'd offered the fickle cat a string but she didn't want to play, so now he was going to give that little string a tug to pull it away and see if that could tempt the cat to extend a paw. It was a strategy he was very familiar with. Most of his business associates were careful people – they didn't survive long in his line of work if they weren't – who were weary of new ventures at best and inclined to skittishly avoid human contact altogether at the worst. So, he'd extend them an offer with charm and calm grace. Like a good salesman, he might even buy them dinner and a few rounds of exorbitantly priced drinks to seal the deal. Few ever refused him outright – he was careful to give the right pitch to the right person – but many were hesitant to accept. He understood; they had to think it over. So, he would walk away, subtly suggesting that the offer came with an expiry date, challenging the target to accept, to grasp at what he had offered for fear of it disappearing, or worse yet, being offered to someone else. Most people, Red found, had a great fear of regret and would accept any offer rather than live with the what-ifs and regret. Even buyer's remorse could not quell humanity's fear of the road not taken. So, without a mention of his departure, he and Dembe left Andrea safely ensconced in the Peruvian estate with a nurse, chef, and physiotherapist to stew on his offer, and made their way to a remote airstrip where they would find Red's private jet.

With the estate well behind them and the airfield many miles away, Red began to speak freely with Dembe.

"How is the situation with your relatives?" Red asked of his security detail and close friend.

"The outbreak appears to be over in the Congo. I have not heard news of it spreading beyond the borders. My family are safe," Dembe replied, calmly.

"Ebola is only one of many dangers they face, I know," Red replied, full of sympathy for Dembe's family and others like them. It seemed inordinately cruel to him that just by virtue of their country of birth many had fewer opportunities and had to face greater dangers in their daily lives than he, as an affluent American man, ever had to.

"It is a difficult life to lead," Dembe conceded.

"My offer stands. I will get them papers and relocate them to a safer corner of the globe. I will ensure they have a roof over their heads, a job for your brother, and schooling for your nieces," Reddington offered.

"I thank you for that, my brother, but they are happy where they are. Yes, it is dangerous in many ways, but they have their community there and it is far more dangerous to remove a man from the community which supports and uplifts him than it is to live through struggle with the help of friends and family," he replied, firmly but gently.

"I can't pretend to understand, but I do respect your wishes on this, old friend," Red replied with a nod.

Dembe nodded as well, settling the matter. The remaining minutes of the drive passed pleasantly, with both men making small talk.

As per Red's instruction, the usual pilot and plane were waiting upon their arrival. Dembe and Red boarded, and Red fixed himself a Scotch and lit a fine cigar. The flight was exceedingly long with 2 stops planned for refueling, but both men had work to do to pass the time. Red was still trying to decode the messages in the books they'd stolen from the library. He didn't trust any of his current associates to do the task without selling some of the messages for profit on the side, so he's taken to figuring it out himself. He was ashamed to admit his decoding skills were a little rusty. However, he was enjoying the challenge; for him, the task was like a puzzle or a particularly engaging game of chess, difficult but scintillating. While Red puzzled over the letters and symbols, looking for patterns in them, Dembe was busy making arrangements for potential buyers for the messages they had already succeeded in deciphering. It would be a few weeks at least before they were ready to visit prospective clients, but one of the keys to their business was to build anticipation and, where possible, incite a bidding war. Of course, given the calibre of Red's clients there was always a risk that competitive bidding could turn into a real war, but so far he's managed to diplomatically avoid such a situation. By the time they touched down in Paro, Bhutan, most of their business was in order.

"To a hotel, I think," Red instructed Dembe as he took the wheel of their waiting vehicle. "I'm far too jetlagged to be climbing the stairway to the monastery this evening."

Dembe nodded, and even though he was just as jetlagged, drove them to the hotel. In a matter of minutes, they'd secured the penthouse suite at the most luxurious hotel in that part of Bhutan and had a bellboy bring up their luggage. Red ordered room service while Dembe did a security sweep of the room, and then they sat down to a veritable feast of red rice, jasha maru chicken, specially-prepared yak meat spiced with hot chilli peppers, ema datshi, momo dumplings, dahl, and rice wine. Before long both were very full and retired to their sleeping quarters.

The next morning, not long before dawn, Red rose early to beat the gentle trickle of tourists who saw fit to challenge themselves to climb over 700 stairs to the Tiger's Lair for a photo that would likely be obscured by the all-too-common fog which blanketed the region. Dembe drove him to the base of the climb where they parted ways. Dembe, who had no desire to participate in Red's Buddhist retreat and repentance, would remain in the hotel, maintaining their temporary base of operations.

Slowly, Red began the challenging climb, enjoying the feeling in his legs as he exercised the muscles. He knew he didn't quite look it anymore – after a decade of the cigars, caviar and champagne lifestyle – but he's once been a man in peak physical condition, with a near-chiseled physique. His muscles remembered those days and enjoyed opportunities like this climb to remind him that they were there under the thin layer of middle-aged fat he was acquiring. With every step, he felt stronger and more robust. He emptied his mind of thoughts about plans, manoeuvres, and schemes and focused on the sheer physicality of the experience; the breath in his lungs, the feeling of the moisture in the air, the effort required to take each step, the smell of the dense jungle around him, the sound of birds and primates. He continued up the mountain in this meditative state, making an effort to begin his week of solitude before he reached the top.

A few hours later, he reached the summit. For a moment, he took in the breath-taking view, fog and all, unspoiled by the framing device of a camera lens. The panorama was divine. The taste of high-altitude, oxygen-poor atmosphere danced on his tongue with all the smooth perfection of a finely aged vintage. At the gates of the monastery, he greeted a monk who, expecting Reddington's arrival, ushered him into one of the quarters reserved for those who came to the sanctuary for spiritual guidance. No tourists would happen upon the Concierge of Crime there or disturb his peace. Although, Reddington thought, it would be a very special kind of tourist who would recognize him – an FBI agent on vacation, perhaps. The thought alone was preposterous. Most agents he known were far too attached to their jobs to travel abroad for anything but an assignment. No, FBI agents stayed close to home, waiting by their cells for a call to action, hopelessly devoted to their careers… if they took their vacation days at all.

In the high, misty range, 10000 feet above sea level, Raymond Reddington meditated day and night for a week. He tried, in vain, to let go of his desire for vengeance against those who wronged him and stole from him the only family he had ever known. With every breath he tried to remind himself that holding on to anger was like holding on to hot coals. He tried to feel some fear at the prospect of being burned, but all he could think was that it would be worth it if he could also burn those others he sought. He tried so hard to meditate away the years of guilt, pain, longing, regret, anger, and hatred. He told himself that he would sweat the memories out in the dense humidity and emerge a changed man, ready to run his empire with hedonistic delight. He told himself he would let go of the past and leave ready to live in the present.

It did not work. Seven days and seven nights passed and he left the sanctuary, more relaxed, but unchanged. If anything, the meditation served to hone his thoughts of revenge.

**AN: Sorry this is a bit of a shorter chapter. Originally, I'd planned for something else to come next in the story, but I figured it would be better to give you a bit more a Red's perspective since he is (obviously) a pretty awesome and interesting character. (I mean, this is why we write fanfiction about him and the Blacklist - because its such an interesting premise with interesting characters!) **


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Well... Judging back the lack of feedback on the last chapter, I guess you guys&gals weren't really digging my foray into Red's plotline. So, let me make it up to you with this Andrea-centric chapter.**

It had been nine days since Andrea had last seen Raymond Reddington. He disappeared, along with Dembe, without a word. She'd had no indication that he was even thinking of leaving. If she'd been the gambling sort, she would have bet that he was planning on sticking around and trying to persuade her to join in his criminal pursuits. It was a good thing that she wasn't the gambling type, because she would have lost.

For the first two mornings, she'd looked for him, half-expecting to find him sitting at a table in the atrium, playing chess. While she had serious oppositions to the idea of becoming an international criminal and living on the run, she secretly enjoyed her debates with him on the subject. It was the first time in a long time that she'd been able to verbally spar with someone and she'd forgotten how exhilarating it was. Now, he was gone, and she realised that she shouldn't have been getting such pleasure out of arguing with him just for the sake of arguing. She realised on day four that she'd been so angry at him because directing her anger gave her a sense of agency she desperately needed after having her life turned upside down. She was still coming to terms with the fact that she'd essentially been a courier for criminals, that her boss was a criminal with murderous intentions, that her boss was dead, and that she would never be able to go back home… but being angry at Reddington for sparking these revelations was easier than being angry with herself for being so oblivious to the world around her. It was easy to be angry with him. He was so polished, so smug, so defiantly free of the baser human flaws; like he was begging to be taken down a peg. And he was her type – older, well-spoken and well-dressed, erudite, sauve – and she'd learned the hard way to distrust and dislike men that were attractive to her. He was a convenient scape goat for all the men who'd betrayed her trust in the past. Without Red to be angry at, she was forced to be more introspective and consider the role she'd played in making her own life a mess.

While she reflected on her life, Andrea wandered the palatial estate Reddington had stranded her in. The physiotherapist he'd hired to care for her injured leg encouraged Andrea to be active in order to speed up the healing process. So, she walked the lush grounds with the support of her crutches, looking at the strange plants and flowers. Then, she would spend hours in the library, researching the flora and fauna, teaching herself about them and their properties. She learned which spiders and snakes to avoid and which berries and leaves were edible or medicinal. She learned everything she could about the growing season and the climate and the history of Peru, but the library was limited and there was only so much geological, geographical, and biological research she could busy herself with. By the eighth day, she'd completely exhausted those topics. She was left with nothing but her own gloomy thoughts and regrets.

On the ninth day, Andrea awoke determined to keep her mind active and stop dwelling on past events. As she stretched her arms high above her head in the comfortable white bed in the immaculate white bedroom, she thought she might try going on a longer walk around the property and maybe take a few steps without the crutches. The physiotherapist had encouraged her not to rush it, but Andrea was impatient to move independently of the crutches. If she was going to be essentially trapped in the middle of the jungle, she'd like to be able to at least wander her lush green prison cell unencumbered. Oh the irony! He told she wouldn't survive in prison and then he'd locked her away in a prison of his own making!

She rose and hopped along the floor to the bathroom. It was the most beautiful bathroom she'd ever seen and it made her feel like she was treating herself to a spa visit every morning. Hell, it even had a Vichy shower and heating flooring! Smiling at her own private indulgence, she turned on the shower, divested herself of the cotton nightgown, and let the hot water roll over her skin and down her back. Taking her time, she slowly washed her long hair with the vanilla and orchid-scented shampoo that had been placed in the shower for her, massaging her scalp and working her way down to the ends of the strands. She grabbed a loofa and scrubbed her back. Then, she turned off the shower, and dried herself off. Touching her wound, she noticed that it barely hurt to touch it anymore; the muscles had been damaged though and they were still very weak.

Dry, she emerged from the bathroom, and went to the closet. Somehow, it had been stocked with a variety of clothing in her size, more or less. A few of the items were too big in the hips, but then again she'd always had hips like a teenage boy's, and a few of the items were too short in the sleeves or too tight across her ribcage, but for the most part the clothing fit. On that day, she chose an oatmeal-colored linen tunic and white Bermuda shorts. She wore her hair loose, the curls behaving wildly in the humidity. On the whole, it was a comfortable look, everything about it was loose and breezy and the opposite of what she would have worn to work as a librarian.

Looking forward to a long walk, she picked up the crutches and made her way downstairs to the atrium. Then, she looked out the towering windows and saw that it was raining. No, it was not raining, it was pouring. She could barely see to the edge of the pool due to the sheer volume of rain that was falling. Andrea cursed. So much for her walk. She flopped down into the chair by the chessboard with a deep sigh.

She pondered the board, wondering if she should play. She noticed the pieces were set such that they were in the middle of a game, and tried to puzzle out what Reddington's strategy had been. Andrea noted that the Queen had the opposing King in check and would take him out with a turn, but that upon further analysis she noted that the Queen's victory was perhaps only temporary. Assuming the King's side had the next move, the Queen would be brought to her knees by the King's Rook. Still, the layout of the pieces looked unnatural, as though it were all too perfect to have occurred during the course of a game. Andrea wondered if it was some sort of message. Was she the Queen? Was it a subtle threat? Or a reminder that even though she thought she was being defiant and choosing whether or not to accept his offer on her own terms, that he was ultimately a step or two ahead of her?

She puzzled over the board for a minute. Suddenly, an idea came to her. Raymond Reddington might like to think that he could read her like a book – might know that she would read into the position of the pieces on the chessboard – but two could play at this game. She would investigate this house like it was an index, searching for clues as to who Raymond Reddington was, where he had been, what he wanted…

She traced her fingers along the chessboard, lightly touching the pieces while she thought. Swiftly, she plucked the attacking Queen from the board and with her base, knocked over the King before the Rook could intervene. She picked up the defeated King and pocketed the piece.

Then, rising, she began to wander about the house, taking a renewed interest in the little objects around the place. For the first time, she noticed a sound system tucked into a nook that joined the living room and atrium. On the shelf below were a dozen or so CDs which she bent to inspect. The first title she saw was The Best of Ennio Morricone. Andrea chuckled at the image of the illusive and erudite international criminal listening the theme songs and scores of classic westerns. She also found a pair of Rolling Stones albums, some Miles Davis, Etta James, some classical albums from famous philharmonics and symphony orchestras, an album of some group called Neko Case & Her Boyfriends, a couple from Ali Farka Touré, Toumani Diabate, and Stan Rogers. Andrea didn't recognize many of the names, but judged Reddington's taste in music to be rather eclectic based on the different album covers and song titles. That was assuming of course, Andrea noted, that the CDs belonged to Red and not Dembe or one of the other household staff.

Andrea rose and worked her way along the wall which separated the two rooms, noting the intricately woven tapestry that hung there as decoration. She did a quick scan, realising that most of the walls in the house were bare with the exception of a few tasteful but neutral works of art. None of the art featured people or human figures and there were no photographs in sight. She thought back to her apartment in New York, and the photographs of love ones and friends which covered almost every surface, and realised that the sparseness of the Peruvian estate was odd. Andrea wondered what to make of this for a moment, and decided that it likely meant one of three things: 1. Reddington did not own the property and the house was being rented. 2. Reddington did own the property but did not spend much time here and had trusted a decorator to furnish the place in his absence. 3. Reddington did own the property, but being an international criminal or sorts would likely be wary of leaving personal items lying around which might to be found by police forces or his enemies.

Andrea decided to test the third theory, and over the next seven days, she searched the place top to bottom for personal items. She checked behind picture frames, between the pages of books, behind shelves, under furniture… Her search turned up a few items from a closet full of custom-tailored light-weight suits and matching hats, a pair of leather shoes with well-worn soles indicative of heavy wear, a dusty bottle of cologne, and a dog-eared picture of a brown-haired little girl in a ballet outfit which she found tucked behind the frame of a water colour landscape painting in the library. She also noted his name, carefully inscribed on the colophon pages of a number of the books in the library and others which she found scattered around the house on coffee tables and under beds. These clues caused her to conclude that while Reddington did likely own the estate and stay here from time to time, he was an extremely guarded person. It made sense, she thought, he probably had to be guarded for his own safety.

She continued to search the house, each bit of information she gleaned, raising more questions about the man whose house she was living in. Then, twenty three days after she's last seen Raymond Reddington, trying to persuade her to act as his personal criminal researcher over a plate of steak and fries, she found the file. Tucked under a false-bottomed drawer in the library desk, she found a manila folder with her name neatly typed on the label. Bile rising in her throat, she practically ripped it open and began to read. She had to contain herself as her anger built up at the knowledge that he had a file on her. As she read about her own life like an outsider she had to control the impulse to throw things across the room. She took a deep breath and an idea occurred to her. She scrounged around the room for a red pen and began to annotate the file.


End file.
